


The Time That is Given To Us

by JennyGreenteeth



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Certain liberties taken in order to crowbar this into the canon, Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Folk Stories, M/M, Mild Timeline Fuckery, Non-Explicit Old People Sex, Romance, The One Ring - Freeform, sorry this is depressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-20 07:34:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/884651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennyGreenteeth/pseuds/JennyGreenteeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Balin and Bilbo court slowly and carefully, which is as it should be, for all things come to fruit in their own good time. It is possible, however, to miss the harvest, and then winter will be upon you before you know it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Merry meet, merry part and merry meet again

**Author's Note:**

> So, in the films Bofur is the most chummy with Bilbo, and I ship that, I really do. But then I was thinking how in the book Balin is a bit more appreciative of him and even comes to visit him at the end, so I thought, has anyone explored that yet? I apologise if they have and I’m duplicating.
> 
> I haven’t written for a fandom for many a long year (since about 2009) so I’m sorry if my rustiness shows. I just had an idea and wanted to get it out. I also only used to write funny stuff and fluffy porn, but this was never going to end happily without being an AU, so this is the first time I have tried to evoke ‘powerful feels’. 
> 
> Anyhoo, I shall stop apologising for myself and put this thing up. Except to apologise to the many cultures’ folk tale archetypes I have cannibalised.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Parting, reunion, how tobacco was saved.

“I could stay a while yet, if it would help you. I mean, if you needed someone to…” Bilbo didn’t have to finish for Balin to know what he meant and be touched by it, for he knew well that the hobbit was aching to be home. They had embraced as glad friends, and pulling back had looked into each other’s eyes and seen there a pain so similar to their own that it comforted them. They were looking at the world across the gap left by the passing of a colossal figure, not to mention the dimming of the bright twin stars of his nephews. Bilbo understood that Balin had also lost family, and whatever their blood ties had been, they had yet been the family of his heart.

“Bless you, Master Baggins,” Balin clasped Bilbo’s hand and smiled an elusive smile, warm but inscrutable, “but I think it proper that you be on your way back to your Shire. It’s a fitting thing that we end our quest here and secure the kingdom we fought for, but you’ll get no peace until you’ve ended it in the way fitting for you. You’ll need to have gone there and back again, and I would be ashamed to keep you from it. Besides,” Balin tossed Bilbo a wink that made his heart rise, “the wizard will be a worse travelling companion than ever if you keep him waiting.” 

“Thank you, Balin,” Bilbo said it as if it came right from his woolly toes, “for everything. You’ve been an absolute brick.” 

Balin laughed at this quaint turn of phrase and waved Bilbo’s thanks off, pleasantly embarrassed.

“You stop that now, you owe no one here anything and well you know it. Gains and losses tallied, it seems that we’d have come out of this with little to nothing were it not for you, laddie.”

At these unaffected words, Bilbo blushed to the tips of his ears. On his way home, he thought about what Balin had said to him and how apt all the old dwarf’s words seemed to be. Back under his mountain Balin thought about the way Bilbo had blushed, and was quite surprised at himself.

***

It was not a great handful of years afterward that Gandalf presented himself once more on the doorstep of Bag End and brought Balin with him. Bilbo was unprepared for the lurch of excitement in his chest but he was infinitely better equipped to deal with surprises these days, so he bundled his guests into the parlour and gushed with hospitality. Balin was delighted to see that, while Mr Baggins was certainly filling out his clothes more these days, he also apparently had not aged a day. 

They smoked and talked merrily while the light outside the window cooled into early evening. There was an easy, thankful feeling to their party, as if more than one of them was finally able to breathe fully after not having done so for a long while. Bilbo was eager for news of all his friends and their doings, and full of his own Shire gossip; while this latter might have seemed small beer, Bilbo knew he need not be shy with his present companions. He was deeply involved in a narrative of the hilarity that had ensued when he had tried to get his posset pots back from Odo Proudfoot, when he noticed Balin was giving him a look that could only be described as wistful. He realised a second later that he wouldn’t have noticed this if he himself had not been giving Balin such a stare, and quickly looked away. This caused Balin, in turn, to recall himself and give his pipe-bowl a sudden intense appraisal. It dawned on Bilbo then that the mellow atmosphere he’d just broken had been one of mutual relief, simply to be in the same room together. Gandalf chuckled privately at some amusement of his own, unrelated to the conversation.

The wizard left two days later, but Balin stayed out the week and into the second. He and Bilbo had been nothing but polite and jovial when they had agreed that Balin would make a holiday of it, but behind their eyes they had been pleading. They had both been missing something, embodied by the other, which only absence had drawn attention to - a certain understanding, perhaps. It was strange to think of their first meeting, back when a plague of thirteen dwarves with an exaggerated sense of their own entitlement had turned up on the doorstep of a fatuous little hobbit with a tendency to swoon. Bilbo had been irked and Balin sceptical, though they had soon come to respect each other as two such stout fellows will. But how things had sweetened! 

Now they found themselves sitting contentedly in the golden sun of early autumn, wearing matching smiles and laughing good-naturedly at the dramas and follies around them. They were enjoying a cultural exchange via the medium of tobacco leaf, which inclined them towards the giggles. 

“Did I never tell you where tobacco comes from?” Balin began, grinning speculatively. 

“I know where this came from,” Bilbo tapped Balin’s pipe, “I know the fellow who grows it, down in the South Farthing; does me a very good deal.”

“And may he ever do so! But I’ve never told you how blessed Mahal, father of the fathers, saved tobacco for all the free people.” 

“Did he now?” Bilbo’s eyes shone. Whether Balin’s stories were true tales, myths or just made up nonsense to keep his mind busy, they had always been worth the hearing. Balin could read a shopping list and you’d want to ask him to repeat the good bit about the parsnips.

“He did at that, my doubting little friend, in a time, they say, when the earth was only half awake and gods sometimes walked abroad on it. One such day, Mahal was returning from placing stars in the earth so that his children would have their own when they awoke. He was walking back through a deep ravine where plants of all sorts grew crowded together, and he was minded of his wife.”

“As he went on he smelled a sweet smoke and wished to know where it came from. He followed the smoke until he came to a filthy little tent of skins where a wretched creature sat and smoked a pipe of clay. Like a man this creature was, skin and bones, but hairy like a black dog, and no one knows to this day where he came from.”

“Well, Mahal could see that this creature had piled up bales and bales of a dried plant around him and that same plant grew just in a small area near the tent. To see it, Mahal knew it as a plant with many wonderful properties which his lady had created to sooth the ills of the people of Middle Earth. He brought his great hammer down and trapped this creature beneath it and made him tell all; he was called Weevil, and he had found the first tobacco plants in a quiet part of the earth and had gathered up every seed and leaf for himself.”

“Mahal took all the bales and seeds back, and scattered them behind him for a great distance on his way back to his own lands. Before he left, he smote the hairy creature so hard with his hammer that he was crushed to a size no bigger than this,” and here Balin held his thumb and forefinger close together to show that this was indeed minute, “and the creature cried out in fear, now that he was so small. Mahal took pity on him, and forged for him a tiny shield to wear upon his back. The nasty little thing did not learn his lesson and still tried to keep the tobacco to himself, but he was now too small to be a problem until many years later, when he discovered how to make himself more numerous.”

“So, it is because of Mahal that good people today can enjoy tobacco, and a symbol of his mercy that they are plagued by the tobacco beetle.” Balin finished with a satisfied smile, the whites of his eyes slightly pink. Bilbo laughed and shook his head, and Balin laughed too, to look at a story told to him as a child and to find someone who was yet amused by it.

“Laugh if you will, Bilbo Baggins, but I’m sure it is as true as my beard is long.”

Bilbo laughed all the more, for no better reason than he was well satisfied with his world at that moment, and the beard in question was certainly very long.

So the time passed quickly, while they traded tales and wandered the gentle hills, and Balin felt quite as good as if he had taken a year’s holiday. There was only so long that he could stay however, regardless of how comfortable he had become. He had legitimate business in the Blue Mountains and it would not wait out the winter. On the day he left, he paused at the end of the path to look back, and Bilbo was still watching, ready to wave again. 

“Come back soon, old friend!” he called, and Balin left feeling quite reassured of his own value on the earth, having put such a smile on such a face. He later made his return east by the same route and did not return to Erebor until several months after he was expected. 

***

Balin had once fancied himself pretty wise, as far as he went, but he knew there was always more to learn and they did not have long enough to spend on the earth to learn it all. Chiefly, he was revising his ideas about quests, which perhaps did not wholly end where they should; little sliver threads of them could trickle on and pick up speed and sweep you up into something else.

For years after that Balin came and went through the Shire, visiting Bilbo whenever he could find the excuse – and he was a canny dwarf, and so found many. When he could not come, he wrote to Bilbo and sent a raven with the letters, and Bilbo wrote back, chiefly about what a time he had had trying to catch the raven. 

Balin brought gifts when he visited, thoughtful things that might have been regarded as courting gifts in his own lands but which here were surely just polite tokens of thanks for the impeccable hospitality he received. Bilbo, for his part, was always a more-than-perfect host, to the point where another hobbit would think they were being treated to a demonstration of what a suitable person Bilbo was to set up a home with, though in this case it was no more than an earnest effort made to welcome a good friend who was often long away. Balin even brought other dwarves of Bilbo’s acquaintance sometimes, and he was always delighted to see him, but it was not quite the same as what he felt when he saw Balin. There was an unhurried pace to what built between them, and that seemed fitting, as Balin would no doubt phrase it.

The only shadow that passed over their times together sprang from certain odd habits that Bilbo was developing around the magic ring he had brought back from their adventure. He kept it a secret from others of his folk – prudent, Balin acknowledged – and always liked to know where it was. Balin had commented on this once or twice but found Bilbo defensive and touchy on the matter, and as their stolen days were precious, both of them soon stopped mentioning it. 

Precious they were, and Balin guiltily caught himself sitting in counsel meetings wishing he were in a warm parlour with the sound of night birds drifting in from the garden, holding a pair of oversized, hairy feet in his lap while he listened to their owner bringing to life the poetry of many races. Few in Erebor noticed the abstraction, for Balin was diligent in all his work, but naturally his brother knew about his extended absences and the leanings of his thoughts. Dwalin understood. Indeed, Balin was by no means the only one remaining of the Company who still got itchy feet and a restless heart.

“It’s not that Dain isn’t as fine a king as ever we could have asked for,” Dwalin articulated Balin’s views exactly, “and I’ll admit – I will admit –that sometimes he’s wiser in his judgement than Thorin would have been in his place, but there’s something... something doesn’t feel as it should.”

“Aye, aye, it’s a terrible thing for me to still be thinking on some hot-headed prince whose been buried near enough three decades when our own living king sweats blood for the good of our folk,” Balin sighed, “and worse still that I’d rather be bothering the poor Hobbit.” 

They all referred to him as the Hobbit these days – not out of disrespect of course, but because he was the Hobbit, the one and only.

“It’s your own fault. If you could show a bit less wisdom and honour and not anticipate near enough every threat that comes against the Mountain, you could pack up and live in the Shire yourself. Aye, and this place would crumble around our ears.” Dwalin said it with sympathy in his voice, knowing perfectly well that the dragon would arise from the lake and make a formal apology before Balin would abandon his people. For now, he would continue living his double life and occasionally worrying about which one felt more real.


	2. Tomatoes are Red, Gandalf is Grey...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The epic history of the tomato, a tentative plan and the temptation of Balin.

Balin knew that Gandalf visited the Shire too when he could, and sometimes they caught each other, at which times Balin was bled dry of any news he had and received none in return. It was on one such visit, when Balin had arrived to find Bag End looking a little more disorganised than usual, that he and the wizard had been presented with the tiniest little button of a hobbitling. 

“Gentlemen, I’d like you to meet my esteemed nephew, Frodo Baggins. Frodo, this is Master Gandalf and Master Balin, both very good friends of mine and very important people, in their own ways.” Bilbo watched proudly as the child stepped up to the two strangers and announced, clearly and carefully, that he was at their service. 

“At yours and your family’s.” Balin replied, standing to bow in his turn.

Gandalf did not rise, but leaned forwards to look into eyes shining with questions, his own eyes crinkling at the edges with what Balin thought looked like profound approval. 

They learned later where the child came from, what had befallen his parents and how long since his uncle had taken him in. Balin was charmed by the little child, and Gandalf even more so, and the presence of a growing child made it easier to judge how slowly Bilbo was aging compared to the rest of his kind. Nevertheless, Balin saw slow threads of grey defuse becomingly through Bilbo’s darkening sandy hair. That was a disquieting thing, to see Bilbo pass through in 15 years what Balin himself had covered in 40. It felt to Balin like Bilbo was catching him up, and that was a bitter thing, because there would never be another Bilbo Baggins. 

 

Balin also saw Frodo grow more and more into a sound young gentle hobbit, hearing of every milestone in the boy’s life, and even witnessing a few. On the day after the big party that was thrown to celebrate the start of Frodo’s tweens, the young hobbit was off to spend a weekend camping in the woods with his cousins. Balin watched him go, feeling his chest tighten to think of the days long ago when he had first schooled two little brothers who had gone on to die before him, and he failed to hide the sorry sigh he heaved.

Bilbo slipped his hand into the crook of Balin’s arm and gave him a brief nuzzle on the shoulder before tugging him outside into the spring sunshine.

“Come on, you need fresh air and honest work to keep that mind of yours busy.”

Balin allowed himself to be dragged, melancholy thoughts giving way to the baffled amusement with which he regarded many of the hobbit’s comings and goings. This in turn gave way to trepidation when he saw what Bilbo was proposing. 

Nevertheless he found himself, a short while later, kneeling on an old cushion in the dirt and very carefully picking up a tomato seedling around the roots as he had been shown. He was used to being the teacher, but at this moment he was right out of his comfort zone. He held the little plant away from him with the same panic seen in tender souls who are holding a spider while they wait for someone else to open a window. Bilbo couldn’t help but laugh before he took pity on the dwarf. 

“It’s not going to scuttle up your arm, you know.”

“Are you sure?” Balin huffed, but when he saw the mirth in Bilbo’s eyes he smiled as well.

“I promise. Just nestle it right there,” Bilbo gestured to the hole they had prepared, “Don’t lose too much of the soil around the roots. Good, now we just cover him up, like so.” Bilbo pushed well-turned soil over the roots and patted it down, and Balin did the same on his side of the plant. The leaves of the tomato gave off a fine, clean smell that he had never appreciated when he bought the fruits at markets.

The little plant was tucked in securely and Balin regarded it with motherly pride until he caught the soft look that Bilbo was giving him and realised how silly he must look. He tried to look dignified, but because Bilbo was smiling Balin smiled, and they knelt there in the mud beaming like shy, silly young creatures. 

“I think you’ve got the hang of it,” said Bilbo not meeting Balin’s eyes, “let’s get these others bedded in and then I think it’ll be about time for lunch.”

“Aye to that.” Balin retrieved the little trowel and began to make another hole just where Bilbo showed him while the hobbit loosened the next plant from its pot, “This is hardly a thing that comes naturally to a dwarf, you know.”

“You don’t say?” Bilbo was quite playful today, and Balin raised an eyebrow in mock displeasure.

“Don’t you give me the eyebrow!” Bilbo remonstrated, “Now listen, I’ll have you know we take tomatoes very seriously around here. They have a turbulent history.”

Balin’s shoulders shook with quiet laughter at this.

“When I was a boy,” Bilbo went on, “I was told about the days when the noble tomato was less funny than you seem to find it. Hobbits didn’t dare to grow them because of their demonic associations; they were known to attract the legions of the dead.”

“The dead?”

“The very same. They would rise from their graves on moonless nights to feast on the juicy flesh of our tomatoes.” Bilbo made ‘spooky’ motions with his dirty hands, “They say that many years ago, when hobbits were first spreading into Buckland, we were fair plagued by wandering hosts of spirits.”

“Then tell me, how did you ancestors put a stop to this dreadful blight?” Balin was very obviously diverted and Bilbo was enjoying himself immensely.

“Well I’ll tell you. That was thanks to Wilberforce Oldbuck, one of the first hobbits into Buckland. There was nothing he loved to eat more than tomatoes and so he brought seeds with him and tried to grow them in his new home. He tried everything to keep the dead away – turnip lanterns, mirrors, blessing the soil – but every night they rose and consumed the fruit as it ripened.”

“Then one day, Wilberforce was working in his field, where his other crops were growing unmolested. A weary traveller passed up the road that ran alongside the field. He was tall and had a cloak which shadowed his face, and he was all covered with dust from the road and cut a very sorry figure indeed. He hailed Wilberforce and asked directions from him. Few hobbits would have given the time of day to such a stranger, but Wilberforce was a man of charity; not only did he give directions to the traveller, but he took him into his home and gave him good food and drink and refilled his empty pack. The traveller thanked Wilberforce many times and as he went he cast off his hood and Wilberforce saw that his guest had the bright eyes and fair face of an elvish prince. As he left the house, he made a sign of blessing over Wilberforce’s hoe which was leaning outside the door.”

“That night there was no moon, and Wilberforce’s tomato crop was nearly ripened. As he lay in his bed he heard the dreadful sounds of the hosts of the dead. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing yet another crop and so he rose in a rage. As he came out of his house, he snatched up his hoe which still leaned against the wall where he had left it and struck at the foremost wraith. The iron of the hoe broke apart the skull of the lich king, setting free his trapped soul, and after that night Buckland was never again troubled by the dead. Many more hobbits moved into that area and grew tomatoes in abundance.” Bilbo finished, just as the last of the seedlings were put to bed.

“Well I never,” chuckled Balin, “I won’t take tomatoes for granted as long as I live.” And his eyes twinkled as he laughed. Bilbo glowed, feeling pleased and very warm towards his friend.

“Look at the state of you, you could have been buried yourself!” he began fondly to pick bits of potting soil out of the upturned ends of Balin’s beard. Bilbo had come very close indeed to do so, and it seemed sensible at that moment for Balin to put an arm round Bilbo to steady them both.

They were blushing when they went back inside the coolness of Bag End, but this did not stop Bilbo from backing Balin up to ensure he removed his boots at the door.

***

A few days closer to the time Balin had to leave, Bilbo had one of his moods on him. Balin had observed these disquieting departures from the hobbit’s usual cheerfulness on only a few occasions during his visits. At these times Bilbo would stare into the air, preoccupied with something he had not been able to tell his friend, fumbling in his pocket for the little ring of gold that had come to mean so much to him. Sometimes, like today, he would manage to leave it – hidden under his pillow or behind a knick-knack on the mantelpiece – and would come to Balin to talk, looking fearfully over his shoulder as if he expected something to be listening.

“I feel tired, but not for rest,” he confided, “I need to be up and about, I’m tired of… I don’t know!” He was getting flustered, and Balin, mild as milk, took Bilbo’s hands in his own and rubbed his blunt dwarf-thumbs over the hobbit’s knuckles. “Balin, I think perhaps I need to travel again, see something that will take me out of myself.” Bilbo sagged forwards and rested his forehead on Balin’s shoulder. 

“Bilbo,” Balin smiled and carefully pulled his friend close, “you will always be welcomed by the folk of Durin wherever they may be found. Whenever you want to, you could journey again with me.”

Bilbo gasped and hugged Balin with desperate gratitude, trying to bury himself in the rich but travel-faded red robe. 

“Thank you, my friend.” He breathed.

“Now then, there’s no thanks owed, I shall be glad to have you with me. We’ll even go back and visit those wretched elves of yours if it will give you peace.”

Bilbo laughed, a real laugh.

“Thank you, Balin. I believe that would be just the thing for me, as soon as the boy is grown enough to inherit.”

“Whenever you like.” Balin repeated, and they left it at that, the promise being enough to see Bilbo through for some time.

***

Sometimes they spoke of leaving again as the years passed, but Balin never sought to rush Bilbo into anything. The closest he came was once, when he needed to check for his own peace of mind, and said,

“You know me well enough to know that you can speak your mind, and not say you want to go if you don’t.”

“I do want to go,” Bilbo had insisted, “Just... now isn’t the right time.”

Balin didn’t ask when the right time would be, but continued his comings and goings, playing diplomat and councillor for his people and visiting the Shire when he could. It never occurred to him to press the matter, even as their relationship deepened, as was its wont, with the slow and unstoppable motion of the ancient ice sheets.

***

Balin squinted from the dimness of the hobbit hole into the bright sunlight, watching Bilbo in the garden. He was humming an old familiar tune and pottering contentedly without a care in the world, while Gandalf sat on a bench and tried to get a coherent conversation out of him. This was the way it should always be, Balin reflected.

He knew where the ring was likely to be at that moment; Bilbo, by habit, left it under an old brass bell on the mantelpiece when he was working in his garden. It seemed to trouble him so sometimes, as though the tiny thing was a hole in the world through which all darkness flowed in. Other times he would hardly be aware of it, which Balin liked best, and again there were times when nothing would satisfy the hobbit but to look at the thing and twist it in his fingers. It wasn’t right. Bilbo was a beacon of hope – of honest happiness that didn’t have to come at someone else’s expense. He should be protected. Bilbo had difficulty with the idea of letting the ring go, but, thought Balin, if he just took it now before the hobbit realised, Bilbo would probably be grateful in the end. Certainly he would be better off; it would be a kindness. Balin could take the ring away to be melted down. Better yet, he could give it to Dain, for he had heard that the treasuries of the dwarf lords of old were each founded on a ring. Then again, Balin himself was not so far from being royalty…

He had wandered while thinking and had ended up in the sitting room without ever consciously deciding to go there. Well, he may as well have a look, now he was here. He walked over to the mantelpiece and lifted the bell a fraction to peek underneath it, but there was nothing there.

“What are you looking for?” Gandalf’s voice demanded, and Balin started out of his skin. He dropped the bell, caught it awkwardly before it hit the floor and fumbled it back into place. He had not heard the wizard come in from the garden, which meant of course that the wizard had not intended him to hear. 

For a moment Gandalf seemed huge. Not just tall, but towering, like a great cloud filled with storm, and Balin was afraid. As the wizard stepped closer, however, he seemed to shrink back to his normal self and his face softened. 

“Balin, son of Fundin, don’t think it has escaped me how often you come here. Do not mistake me, for I approve; I know you come here for no reason other than you are fond of our mutual friend. Indeed, I fail to see how anyone could not be fond of him. There are some parts of his life, however, which you would do well to stay out of, and I know you’ll believe me when I say that it will go very ill with you if you do not. You are not entirely ignorant, I see that you have guessed that something unwholesome is at work, but I must ask you to be content to know that I have it in hand.”

So Gandalf spoke patiently to Balin, who tried getting angry and indignant at first, but ended up pouring his heart out. By the time the wizard was finished with him, Balin was filled with more shame than he had thought it possible to feel.

Bilbo wandered in from the garden then, having at last become aware that he had lost track of both of his guests. 

“What are you two old hens gossiping about, hmm?” he asked absently, then gasped when Balin turned to him and he saw that the dwarf’s eyes were wet. Bilbo went to Balin right away, putting his hands on his face and fussing around him until Balin took Bilbo’s wrists gently and held him still. Gandalf received a telling off, which he took with amusement. 

The next day Balin took affectionate leave of Bilbo and took himself back to his mountain. It was quite a while before he came visiting the Shire again after that.


	3. Tall Tales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ancient dwarven legends, modern dwarven legends, nookie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm afraid Narins is a brand of oatcakes which I get through a lot of. I thought I should own up to that. It's a pretty convincing dwarf name though, right? I had to fight off the urge to call the other one Soreen after the fruity malt loaf.

Balin, sorely missed and missing, arrived back on Bilbo’s doorstep to find the hobbit with almost a full head of grey hair. The real signs of wear were in his eyes though, which had odd moments of haunted reverie amongst his usual good humour. He had been overjoyed to see his old friend and scolded him for staying away, but seemed to have trouble speaking about what was wrong, though Balin could make a guess. 

The next night was a blustery night, the kind that makes animals nervous and is only good for being tucked up in doors on. Bilbo had been abstracted, talking about dark things and asking of Balin answers that no one could give. The night drew in, Bilbo fretted, and in the end Balin sat him down with a drink in front of the fire and put an arm around him. Bilbo leaned into the warmth and rested his head on Balin’s shoulder, but still the hobbit worried about why he thought the things he sometimes thought. Balin could not tell him why wickedness existed or how to spot it or protect oneself from it, but he knew about things that made it possible to live with wickedness. He opted for a story which would at least distract Bilbo for a time, even if it failed to get across what Balin wanted to say.

“It’s a story of the first dwarves, when the world was barely in bloom and we were still learning how to be people. They tell us that back then, before the writings were written, the earliest Broadbeam dwarves sought where to make their home. When they came to the Blue Mountains – as they stood then – they saw that their foundations were the bones of the land and the stone was strong as stone can be, but could still be shaped by hands with enough skill and care. There were caves in the mountains then, but wretched creatures also contested for them; these were some of the first goblins, they say, which multiplied like ants, and the dwarves were not numerous enough to drive them out. The goblins were led by a dreadful brute, as big as ten of the normal sort put together, and strong and fast, not bloated and bawling like the fellow you and I met. The dwarves saw that the goblins were only united by this leader’s power, and if they could but bring him down, the others would scatter like startled chickens.”

“So it was that Nairn the dwarf, their mightiest warrior, set off up the mountain to bring the creature down himself. His people sent with him a helm that would protect him from any danger, and a hammer that could forge unbreakable bonds, and bread that would sustain him through anything.”

“Nairn set off round the mountain, but soon came to a place where it was grown over with black trees, and the way was treacherous. Nairn heard cries then, and following with caution, he found among the trees a dwarf he did not know, strung up by his legs and delirious from being upside down for so long. Nairn knew that goblins would not leave a prisoner with such good eating on him, so he took up a rock and heaved it onto the ground below where the dwarf hung. Sure enough, the ground fell away and revealed a pit blasted there and filled with sharp staves. There was nothing for it but to climb the rotting tree and pull the poor dwarf up to the branch, and this Nairn did with great care. Together they got safely to the ground, and the dwarf who had been prisoner thanked Nairn and introduced himself as Cromach.”

“For this, you will always have my friendship, to the end of my days and beyond.” Cromach said, and when he heard of Nairn’s quest he determined to go with him and help. Nairn refused Cromach’s help, saying, “I did not save you in order for you to throw your life away for a cause that is not your own.” And travelled on alone, sending Cromach back to his people.”

“The next day, Nairn entered the mountain, and cornered the goblin chief alone in a glittering chamber. They fought there for a day and a night, and though Nairn was a great warrior, the goblin chief was wicked and wily, and never tired. Nairn had eaten the bread that would sustain him, but his strength began to run low. The helm was struck from his head and the hammer fell from his hands. He lay on the ground in rage and despair, and the goblin chief raised his mace to deliver the blow that would finish Nairn, but the blow never came. All of a sudden there was a great ringing in the cavern and Nairn saw that the mace had been met in mid-swing by a strong axe, and the force of the weapons colliding had shuddered the goblin chief off his feet. There stood Cromach, still dirty and tired and bloody, but he reached down his hand and pulled Nairn to his feet and Nairn felt his strength returning. Together, they slew the goblin chief, who stood no chance against two dwarven warriors, and emerged from the mountain as brothers.”

“Nairn saw then that he had been a fool to refuse the gift Cromach had offered, for friendship had protected him and sustained him, and its bonds were stronger than the best smiths of his people could forge. He said as much, and Cromach said,”

“‘Oh shush, stop it!’” This caught Bilbo off guard and he laughed. Balin went on.

“The people of Cromach joined with Nairn’s people and were numerous enough to clear the mountains and establish a kingdom. The faith between the people of the kingdom had foundations as deep as the bones of the land, and was strong as stone, yet could be shaped by care. And that is how the dwarves learned that there’s nothing so strong or wicked that it can’t be overcome when friends stand together, and we repay our debts, and loyalty is the greatest currency – though of course we’re by no means opposed to the other kind too.”

Bilbo sighed with the exhaustion that comes when great worry is lifted. He found that he had leaned back while he was listening and relaxed completely against Balin’s chest, the dwarf’s arms reassuring and familiar around him.

“That’s a very happy tale.” He smiled.

“It is, and simple too. For that reason there are some dwarves that don’t remember it and say it’s only for children. Can’t say that I ever grew out of it though.”

“And so you shouldn’t! But are there ever those who worry that they can’t repay their debts?”

“I dare say there are, but it’s generally found that they don’t know the value of what they offer because they’re the ones offering it.”

Bilbo shook his head and looked into the fire. Balin found that one of his hands was resting in the centre of Bilbo’s chest and so he rubbed soothingly there. After a moment, Bilbo’s words sank in a little further and Balin was taken aback.

“That was a very strange question to occur to someone who has done such remarkable things for his friends that he has become a legend himself.”

Bilbo looked round, brow furrowed.

“Do you think they don’t tell stories about you, back in Erebor? Tales about you have spread out amongst the dwarves beyond the Blue Mountains and beyond the Iron Hills!”

“You’re not serious?”

“Why should it be so surprising? You’re good story material! Turning invisible and slipping from elvish dungeons and talking to dragons. I’d think it farfetched if I didn’t know better. And you know how people change things to suit them as tales get passed around; I heard one not long ago in which you arm-wrestled a giant spider, once for each of its arms, and beat it all 8 times.”

Bilbo laughed then, and turned in Balin’s arms so he could look at him properly.

“That sounds like Bofur’s work.”

“Aye, I wouldn’t put it past him. Ori says he’s going to collect all the tallest tales and add them as a companion volume to the true record. We’ll have it copied and sent to you. But Bilbo, none of them are stranger than the tale of a thief who gives more than he takes, and we know that one to be true.”

“Oh shush, stop it.” Bilbo blushed, and was so tickled by the thought of the tales about himself and so cheered by his friend’s constancy, that he leaned over and kissed Balin right then. The hobbit took himself by surprise with that one, though he’d thought about doing it before, if he was honest.

Balin narrowed his eyes suspiciously before experimenting with a kiss of his own, equally chaste at first. However, Bilbo leaned forward when Balin made to pull away and so the kiss gently deepened, and they both sighed with gratitude. It was soft and sweet, and completely as it should have been.

“Well, that’s one thing the stories never managed to come up with.” Said Balin, dark-eyed, when they pulled away. Bilbo might have hoped to come up with a witty reply about not disappointing his fans, but he was filling up with warmth and giddy for more, so he only laughed softly and inclined his face to be kissed again. He could feel now how strong Balin still was, and thrilled when the dwarf picked him up and brought him into his lap.

Breathing a little harder and smiling stupidly, they leaned their foreheads together for a moment. Balin looked abashed when he realised where his wandering hands had made their way to, but Bilbo only wriggled against him and said,

“Carry on then!”

They somehow made it to bed, and rolled merrily about like newlyweds until the heat was too much. Balin became careful and serious when it became plain that Bilbo wanted to be taken, but even a dwarf lord could not keep track of himself for long with such yielding warmth beneath him. Balin had learned a trick or two in his time, and Bilbo himself knew a few things about what a body liked, and after they had brought each other to a bright peak of pleasure, the pair lay happy and drowsy in each other’s arms until they dozed.

 

It was a few hours later when Bilbo awoke and stirred. Balin watched him sleepily in the dim light as the hobbit slipped out of bed, shame-faced, and fished about on the floor for his waistcoat. When he found it, he took something gold out of his pocket and placed it on the bedside table, then climbed back under the covers and hid himself against Balin’s chest. Balin said nothing, but screwed his eyes shut and held Bilbo tight.


	4. The Best Laid Plans...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans, letters, the slippery nature of your last chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here I hope to give you feels, unless I've made it too hammy, in which case you will at least get a laugh.
> 
> I wasn't sure whether I should have just left the last two paragraphs out and ended it like, doom, bam, no consolation here. That might have been more dramatic, maybe. But I've got this thing where I have to over-explain stuff which sometimes means it loses it's effect. I generally combat this by means of extensive editing, but my soppy heart wouldn't let me end this the way a more skilled writer might have.
> 
> Still, I think it's pretty tragic.

Bilbo was alone and pacing in Bag End. The table was strewn with maps he had taken out and looked at but could not concentrate on. He had smoked until he felt sick and had to prop the front door open to let in the cool air of the rainy night. He had taken the ring out and twisted it in his fingers, put it down, picked it up again, thrown it down in anger and then scrabbled in fear to find it again where it had rolled under the dresser. He felt like the skin of a drum pulled tight, he felt stupid, he felt frightened and lonely. He knew there was no great difference in him to most of his acquaintances, who had long thought him peculiar. Only Frodo had noticed, and he knew enough to know when he was going to get no information out of his uncle. It was at nights when the fits sometimes took him, and Bilbo would pace the floor and feel angry at himself and at the ring he kept, and then angry at everyone else for making him feel this way. What was wrong in wanting to keep the thing close? It had been hard won and he had done heroic things with it, for all that wizards and dwarves seemed happy to forget that. Then a deeper part of him would surface in fear, a part that longed for friends and comfort and would rather be done with the thing. It was at those times that he wished most for the warmth of his friend who was far away and yet always there for him, whose stories could make the sun rise and whose patience could wear down mountains. There had been no ravens for a few months, and it was easy in those circumstances, when you were tormented by such things as Bilbo was, to forget that someone loved you. 

He gasped in fright when at that moment there came a knock at his front door. He took up a stout stick just in case and edged out to see who it was, then dropped the stick in surprise to see Balin himself, standing in the pouring rain, observing decency even though the door stood open. Balin’s tired face was soft as he stepped in, one hand raised placatingly. 

“I’m very sorry if I gave you a fright-” He said, and then was cut off as Bilbo’s warm weight barrelled into him and they caught each other up.

They said nothing for a while, but stood there and pressed their foreheads together, Balin rubbing Bilbo’s back until the hobbit’s breathing steadied.

“Is everything alright?” Balin asked at last. 

“It’s fine. I just want to leave now, I want to go with you.”

Balin’s face was agonised, not at all the reaction Bilbo had expected. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked, drawing back, “Have you changed your mind about me?”

“Never. Never in a million years.” Balin’s eyes were not calm as they usually were, and he reached out to catch Bilbo’s hand, “But we can’t set off just yet.”

“Why ever not?” Bilbo noticed then that Balin was standing uncomfortably, not putting his weight on both feet and leaning on the frame of the door now that he had not Bilbo to steady him. “Are you alright?”

Balin waved a dismissive hand, “I’m fine, it was quite a journey, that’s all.”

Bilbo rushed in under Balin’s arm and guided him into the house properly, his own distress evaporating like the mist that covered the fields in the morning.

Balin really was fine, if not a little roughed up and sporting an all over dappling of impressive bruises. Bilbo was gently prevented from fussing too much, and contented himself with sorting out a bath and food and all the comforts at his disposal, so that Balin’s face soon filled with colour once more while he told Bilbo all about the perils on the road. The pair of them easily lost themselves in each other, and went to bed laughing softly and groping disgracefully, knowing that in the morning they would have to be serious.

***

Seldom was it that Gandalf the wizard was around when you wanted to talk to him, but in this case it was probably no accident that he rolled up the second day into Balin’s visit. The wizard listened without surprise as Balin related the troubles to the East with orcs and goblins and all manner of wicked creatures. Gandalf gave in return a little of his own news that it was much the same where he had wandered, and spoke of a lengthening shadow, but he was vague and guarded as usual and there was nothing more to be got from him.

“But Erebor is strong,” Balin said, “it’s ruled well and has good friends. We need other strong places still and I mean to see to it we have them. I mean to retake Moria.” Balin had already explained his plans to Bilbo, and Bilbo had assented in the knowledge that Balin was a leader among his people and had to see to their good as well as that of a foolish hobbit. Balin would do this last thing, before stepping back and claiming what he had earned, “Bilbo will come and stay with me there, once we’ve got our foothold. I’ll build him a magnificent hobbit hole that opens onto the sunniest side of the mountains.”

In the end a plan was agreed. Gandalf counselled against the attempt to retake Moria, but he was increasingly of the mind that Bilbo should make plans to go away, so, if all went well, it may as well be there. The delay also suited him, as he had a great deal of business to see to, of which he declined to speak. He did speak later to Bilbo alone about the longing in the hearts of all the line of Durin for their lost mansions.

“This path may be more down to the yearning in his blood than any good sense.” The wizard said. Bilbo was silent for once and stared pensively through the smoke from his pipe.

 

Balin and Bilbo spent almost a month holed up together, barely seeing anyone else, and made their tearful goodbyes at the end of it. They knew it might be a terrible stretch of time before they saw each other again, but when they did it would be as it always was, as if nothing had changed and they had never been apart, and their waning years could be spent settled together.

***

Balin sent what messages he could, though he was careful what he included and never named times or places, and Bilbo would send a message back via the same bird. Once, in a fit of romantic ardour, he pressed a tomato leaf between the pages of his letter – not the most traditional flora to send to a loved one, but certainly the only apt choice for this case. One raven came, many months after Balin left the Shire for the final time, telling Bilbo that Balin’s party had set out, and delighting him with the news that some of his old friends were among the number. Much, much later than that, a bird brought the news that the kingdom of Moria had been successfully retaken. The letter was signed ‘Balin, Lord of Moria’, and made light of the process of ‘mopping up’. Meanwhile, Bilbo made his plans to leave and waited on word from the wizard and from his dwarf lord. There were a few message birds after that, but quite suddenly they stopped, and Bilbo had no way of sending his own messages unless a bird came to him first. Time went on, and there was no word.

The time was approaching that had been agreed as the latest Bilbo should leave the Shire, and Gandalf was adamant now that Bilbo should go. Though he had still heard nothing from the colony in Moria, the hobbit forbade himself from despair – they had discussed this possibility and planned for it; if Balin was unable to collect Bilbo in the Shire then they would meet in Rivendell.

The day came, and with Gandalf’s help, Bilbo managed to leave behind the one thing that still held him back. Bofur, Dwalin and Nori came to travel with him and help him with his preparations, and to Bilbo’s joy Dwalin bore with him a fat letter from his brother. It was dated over two months ago and hinted at trouble in the mines, but it was thick with pledges of devotion and apologies for the lateness of the message, and promised to send word to Rivendell as soon as possible. _“I heard a story many years ago, when I was passing through a poor village of men”_ the letter finished, _“There was a great king who had wealth beyond reckoning, but it turned to dust at his touch until his lover was returned to him. At the time I believed it was a tale made up by men to console them in their jealousy of our wealth, but now I’m appalled to think of my conceit. I have found many precious things in these halls that no elf or man could lay a price on, but it is all dust in my hands, love.”_ Bilbo pressed the pages to his face until a happy tear threatened to smudge the beloved words.

***

The Lord of Moria paced the edge of the pool, exhausted but restive, finally understanding the feeling. His skin was streaked with dirt and dried blood, and he felt stained inside and out. The days were always dark; not the wholesome dark of stone caverns full of the slow, promising life of minerals, but a grey, incomplete dark that never lifted. It was inside the mines and it was in the sky too, on the rare occasions Balin saw it. He looked unseeing into the water, his eyes reflecting regret and guilt for the end he saw awaiting the people – the friends – he had lead here. They were trapped, even now patiently pawing the sides of their grave for some escape. Balin’s filthy fingers felt in his pocket for the smoothness of the small sheets of quartz, between which he had preserved a single leaf. It was what he had left from a time of warmth and good things and all the real gems that could be found between the strata of life. His vision blurred with wetness and he did not hear the creaking of a bow string being pulled taught nearby. 

***

Bilbo came to Rivendell, and there he waited and read and re-read his last letter. Since he had left the ring behind, the years caught up with him quickly, and soon he knew he could not make the rest of the journey alone. As Bilbo waited, dread grew to certainty in his mind, and he shed his tears and wrote in his book and spent his evenings listening to strange poetry, his eyes full of a warm kind of sorrow.

Many years after they had parted, Bilbo finally received his news of the Lord of Moria. By that time he had already mourned and honoured his love as best he could, and tied up what loose ends in his life could be tied, and was very, very old. There was no room to curse the missed chances and wrong turns; all that was left was gratitude for what had been and the knowledge that there would be no peace for him in this world.


End file.
